So, I've always wanted to write a Diana story. This isn't really what I'd always had in mind, so maybe I'll do another one some time, but this just came to me and I had to write it down.

I'll give this one a 'T' rating... but there is some foul language in it. More than I'm used to writing with, anyhow--so if it offends you, I do apologize. But it's Diana Fowley here, so come on... it's bound to happen.

As always, I would love some reviews: )

Trust, Half Baked, and the Loss of Feminist Values:

I guess what it comes down to is trust. Stupidly enough, I had thought he trusted me more than anyone else. Well, maybe not stupidly, since that's what he led me to believe, but certainly naively.

The truth of the matter is that I really should have known better. I really should have known better than to believe that he wouldn't do this to me—that he wouldn't hurt me like this.

"Scully, you're making this personal."

I could have slapped him when he said that. I could have screamed, pulled his hair out, scratched his eyes—I could have cried when he said that. After all this time, to me. I wanted so badly to call him every name in the book—he was such a self-centered bastard in that moment. As if giving up my life [that's what I've done, you know for his quest, following him to the ends of the earth—isn't personal. God, if that's not personal, I'm scared as hell to know what he thinks is personal.

I walked out of that room my lips pulled tightly together, head held high as always, but I felt like complete and absolute shit. The minute I got into my car I fell apart, and the minute I got into my apartment, I lost it even more. I didn't even make it to the couch—I just closed the door behind me, slid down to the floor, curled into a ball with my back against the door and sobbed.

I didn't feel ashamed at my tears—sometimes that's all you can do, cry. I felt ashamed at my naïveté, though—I felt ashamed that I mistakenly thought I could ever, ever measure up to Diana Fowley. But I felt even more ashamed that I wanted to.

I guess what you have to understand about me is that I've always very much been my own person, I've done my own things, lived my own life—I've always been the strong, independent one. But somewhere along the line, somewhere during my time on the X-Files, I'd kind of lost that. A part of me thinks that Mulder took that from me—a part of me thinks that after everything that's happened to me, my cancer, my near death, my sister's death—that it was only natural that I become codependent.

See, that's what I've become, as much as it pains me to admit it—I depend on Mulder. I haven't quite come to accept that yet, but it is true, which I guess is an acceptance in and of itself. But I thought Mulder had realized that. The display at the Gunmen's earlier this evening showed me otherwise.

Either that or he realized it and just didn't care.

I'm on my couch now, eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's Half Baked—well, actually, it's my second pint, and I think I may go for a third when I'm done. The TV is on, but I'm not paying attention—I'm too deeply lost in my somewhat pathetic thoughts to pay attention.

I shake my head. I hate Mulder.

Okay, that's not true. But tonight, I really want to hate Mulder. I want to believe that he's made me what I am—I want to believe that he's responsible for the seeming loss of my individuality. I want to fucking punch him in the face.

That was uncalled for. I know. But give me a break, I'm a pathetic, broken down mess of a woman tonight, and all I can think are violent, pessimistic thoughts. Fucking kill me now.

What I really want to do is punch her in the face. She just waltzes back into his life, playing very much the role of uber-bitch to me, yet lovable ally to Mulder, and he hasn't the mindset to see through it.

God, who the hell should I blame? Should I blame her? Or should I blame him for not seeing through her thinly veiled guise?

"Fox."

I cringe when I hear her call him that. It's disgusting to me, much in the same way that she is disgusting to me. Her saccharine voice dripping with hatred disguised as love. And he fucking laps it up. I'm the only one who can see through it—probably because I'm not blinded by my hormones or my own ambition.

And even if she weren't who she is, she'd still be all wrong for him. I know they were lovers—thanks to the gunmen. "Mulder's ex-chickadee." Fucking gag me. I think I could have gone to the grave without knowing they knew each other in the Biblical sense. I think about them together and it makes me sick, literally sick to my stomach. Her lithe limbs wrapped around his, tangled in the naked pretzel.

I bet she calls him "Fox" there too. And I bet he loves it.

He loves her, doesn't he? Why else would he completely disregard everything I say.

"I know her." Bullshit. That's what it is. He loves her. And he is, in turn, blinded by that love. Of course, he'd never see it that way. God, I'm punny.

I so am making this personal. A long time ago, that would have bothered me—I would have withdrawn, removed myself multiple times from the situation just to prove to everyone that I was capable of being detached. Well, I blame Mulder for that too—for my current inability to be detached. I very much blame him for being attached.

I am, too. Attached to him. Which totally and completely sucks.

This ice cream is good. You would think I'd get sick from too much ice cream, but on nights like this, I can pack endless amounts of food into my stomach—I just keep going until I feel better. And then when I feel shitty again, I eat again.

Thank God I don't feel like this everyday. I'd like to thank Him for Small Favors. Not for helping me out today in getting Mulder to see what a conniving BITCH Diana Fowley is, but just for not making me feel this crappy on a day to day basis. I'd be 600 pounds if I had to face shit like this everyday.

Diana would love that. Short, ginger-haired, unremarkable and fat as fat can be to top it all off. Oh, she'd have a great laugh or thousand at that one. She'd probably convince "Fox" to join in, too.

Of course, I couldn't really be his partner then. At 600 pounds I don't think they'd want me chasing liver eating mutants. He already doesn't completely want me at his side at my current weight—so if I way more than quadrupled in size, I'm pretty sure he'd have me cast out of the X-Files for sure.

Of course, after tonight, I'm not entirely convinced that won't happen anyway.

There is seriously something wrong with me. I just envisioned myself at 600 pounds, and the only thing I was worried about was not being his partner.

See? This is what I mean about all this codependence.

Years ago, envisioning me at 600 pounds would have brought my mind to the severe medical consequences of such a rapid and huge weight gain. I would be concerned about diabetes, cardiac arrest, early death… but not now. Oh no, not now. Now all I can think about is how it would affect him and how it would affect me in relation to him. See? I'm not even concerned about my hypothetical health!

So, anyway, Diana's a bitch.

Shit. He's even taken feminism away from me! How does that happen?

Having been called a 'bitch' numerous times by my male counterparts, I long ago vowed never to call another woman names like 'slut,' 'whore,' 'bitch,' and other lewd and crude things. It was kind of a feminist code for me.

Well, fuck that. I think Diana is a bitch. She's a slut and a whore too for all I'm concerned.

And Mulder, well, he's an asshole.

But a lovable asshole.

Which is clearly the only reason I'm shoveling ice cream into my mouth at the alarming rate I am. I mean, if he were just an asshole, it wouldn't matter. But of course Mulder has to go above and beyond the call of duty and be lovable, too.

He would.

I want to cry again. Just thinking about how it's not personal to him. Somewhere deep inside I guess I thought I was personal to him. I can see now how wrong I am. I can see now how wrong I was to have given up so much of my life—so much of myself for him. And to him. Because no matter how much I like to hide from that, that's exactly what I've done over the course of the years—given myself to him.

Which bites the big one.

Whatever that means.

I really do want to cry, but I feel strangely as though I've used up all my tears for the night—having spent an hour wrapped up in a ball at my door.

Instead, I open another pint and dig in.

I'm halfway through when I hear a knock at the front door of my apartment. I'm in sweatpants and a long sleeved white shirt. I pad over to the door and look through the peephole.

I see Mulder standing there looking adorably sexy and I'm shocked. I had given up hope of seeing him tonight. I really don't want to talk to him But, I kind of do.

"Go away, Mulder." I say.

He looks into the peephole.

"Sorry, Scully, not gonna happen." he says, charmingly. I hate that he's charming, too.

I sigh, knowing he's right. I pull open the door quickly, and then head back over to the couch not even looking at him. I ignore him completely. I pick up my ice cream and keep eating, forcing my eyes to stay on the TV, but I hear him close the door.

My peripheral vision sees he's not moving—just standing there looking at me. And I resist the urge to talk to him at all—I really want to yell at him, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of humiliating myself even more.

"Sooo…" he says, and starts to move closer to him.

I don't look at him, and I don't say a damn thing, I just keep shoving ice cream in my mouth.

"Scully, we need to talk."

I still don't say anything.

He hesitates for a moment or two and there's dead silence between us, considering that the TV is muted. I stare at it like it's got the answers to the universe written all over it, though.

"Scully…" he starts again.

"Then fucking talk, Mulder." I say, my eyes still glued to the TV. "But I'm not going to listen."

I can see, in my peripheral vision, the way his body jumps slightly at my use of profanity. I don't cuss very often—but tonight I really just don't care.

"Okay…" he says, stepping closer. He makes his way so that he's standing in front of the TV. His crotch is right in front of it, but I pretend to look right through him. There's no way I'm making this easy for him. I see him look around, taking into account the ice cream containers I have yet to throw away. "What's going on here?" he says. He says it friendly, but I don't take it that way.

"Welcome to my pity party, Mulder." I say, finally tearing my gaze away from the TV (and reluctantly from his crotch), still refusing to look at his face—focusing on a large chunk of cookie dough in my ice cream.

"Are you drunk, Scully?" he asks, concern written on his face. I hate him again for a moment—as if he's got any right to be concerned about me after today.

I laugh bitterly. I'd kind of rather be drunk. "No, I've just had a lot of ice cream."

"How much ice cream?"

I shake my head. Like it's any of his business. I answer anyway. "Three and a half pints and counting."

He expels breath. "Jesus, Scully."

"Shut the fuck up, Mulder."

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To Be Continued.

Half-Baked, if anyone doesn't know, is a delicious creation by Ben and Jerry's ice cream authorities that contains delicious chunks of cookie dough and brownie. It's nearly as good as Cinnamon Bun from the same company. But seeing as Cinnamon Bun is a new creation, I didn't think it appropriate that Scully would be eating it... what... six years ago? As far as I remember, Half Baked was around back then.

Also. I gave Scully my problem--when I'm depressed I eat. Thank God for treadmills. I've stopped eating by the pint though-- I've switched to sugar free jello pudding--only 60 calories a container. Give it a go next time you're sad!

But for now... go give me a review! ; )